


La Belle et La Bête

by MortalCity



Series: Vindicated [3]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Friendship, Gen, Investigation, Ms. Hudson Is Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 22:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20628884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MortalCity/pseuds/MortalCity
Summary: Marcus discovers the force that is Ms. Hudson undercover.-----Sequel of sorts toIn Absentia, to be read in conjuction withStolen. (In order for this to make any sense at all, you should probably read the other two.)





	La Belle et La Bête

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, I cannot leave these two characters alone. In doing research for the Chapter 12 of "Stolen," I decided that I needed to follow Ms. Hudson and Marcus back to the site in question. I hope you enjoy this little ride-along even half as much as I did. :)
> 
> Chapter 12 of "Stolen" should be posted within the next two days. I know it's been a long delay, and I am so, so sorry about that, but I have NO plans to abandon the story, and I am very excited to bring you more. Thanks for reading!
> 
> (This story falls between Chapter 11 and Chapter 12 of [Stolen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12335763/chapters/28052046).)

Marcus hangs up and hurls his phone into the backseat of his sedan.

“That didn’t sound like it went very well,” Ms. Hudson muses sympathetically from the passenger seat.

“Apparently, the word of two consulting detectives who may or may not be suffering psychological damage from their physical ordeal isn’t enough ‘probable cause’ to justify a warrant,” Marcus seethes. “And, even if we could find a judge who felt differently about it, the warrant would take too long to process. There’s no way we’re getting backup today."

“Well, we can’t just go back to the hotel room,” Ms. Hudson argues. “Sherlock is right; every minute that passes is an opportunity for their captor to destroy evidence. If they were being held on that farm…”

“I _know,_” Marcus interrupts, “but I don’t have a lot of options. It’s not like we can just go in there and conduct our own investigation.”

“Why not?” Ms. Hudson persists. “You have a police-issued firearm. I’m trained in martial arts. Together, we make a formidable team. Just call your captain to let him know you’re taking a personal day, and we’ll go undercover.”

“We can’t go undercover!” Marcus grumbles. “I can’t take another day off! Besides, that perky girl at the reception desk knows _exactly _who I am.”

“She probably won’t remember you,” Ms. Hudson assures him. “I’m very good undercover.”

* * *

The door is in the midst of a melodious chime when a familiar southern accent squeals in delight.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in! You’re back!” Mindy’s cheerful wave accompanies a megawatt smile for which Marcus has not had enough coffee. “Ain’t often we get cops in here first thing in the morning! Didja find yer friends?”

“Probably won’t remember me,” Marcus scoffs smugly under his breath. Ms. Hudson reaches over and gives his hand an unexpected squeeze.

He studies the affable brunette receptionist with narrowed eyes as Ms. Hudson steps jovially up to the counter. She lays her left palm flat on the glass counter, and Marcus’s eye is immediately drawn to the glittering rock on her ring finger.

“You’ll just _have_ to forgive us for burstin’ in with the sunrise,” Ms. Hudson begs in a drawl that rivals Mindy’s, “but my darlin’ husband here told me all ‘bout this little farm you’ve got, and I couldn’t wait a second more to see it. Ever since I left Georgia, I been dreamin’ ‘bout gettin’ back to the simple life, and Slo-N-Smooth Farms is livin’ proof that my blissful childhood in the backwoods ain’t the work of my overactive imagination.”

Mindy’s brown eyes glitter eagerly beneath the fluorescent lights. “You are NOT from the South!”

“Waynesboro, Georgia—born and raised.” Ms. Hudson’s alto is as smooth and soft as a song. “Where’re you from, sweet pea?”

“Oklahoma,” Mindy replies eagerly, sounding positively charmed. “’Bout a stone’s throw from McAlester.” Her long brown hair is in a ponytail, and she toys excitedly with the ends.

“McAlester!” Ms. Hudson echoes. “Ain’t that the small town where the prison has its own dairy farm? Read an article just last year ‘bout someone hidin’ contraband in the walls!”

Mindy leans forward with wide eyes. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Truth be told ‘n all, them prisoners get way too much wiggle room. When I saw they’s bein’ entrusted with somethin’ precious as a dairy farm, I’s fit to be tied.”

“Sure, but if you want a jackass to be a thoroughbread, you’ve gotta let ‘im into the fancy barn,” Ms. Hudson volleys warmly. “And there ain’t no place more magical than a dairy farm. How in the world did y’all manage to hide this place?!”

“Fell into my lap like a warm plate o’ biscuits,” Mindy confides in a stage whisper. “I thought no way I’s gonna find honest work in a place big as New York, but when I came up, the Slo-N-Smooth logo was the first thing I saw. Asked an elder gentleman in a truck stop where the milk’d come from, and he pointed me here. Walked onto the farm, met a young man lookin’ to leave Millbrook, begged Mr. & Mrs. Slo for ‘is job, and the rest is hist’ry!”

“How long since?”

“Comin’ up on one year this spring,” Mindy grins.

Ms. Hudson closes her eyes and inhales deeply and contentedly. “Reminds me of my blue jean days. Y’all got the works in here? Milkin’ stations, pasteurization tanks, walk-ins?”

“Whole operation happens right here, udder to bottle,” Mindy reports proudly. “Been through just about every step of the process myself!”

“Jus’ call me green with envy!” Ms. Hudson declares. “What I wouldn’t give to ditch these heels for a pair o’ boots so I could trot through the hay ‘longside them cows. I miss our old family farm something _fierce._” She turns to Marcus with glittering eyes and fluttering lashes. “Darlin’, don’t I always say how much I miss that farm?”

Marcus, paralyzed by a combination of incredulity, confusion, suspicion, and admiration, clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh…”

Ms. Hudson tucks her hand through his elbow and squeezes. “I _always _say how much I miss that farm. Havin’ a place like this in _up-state-New-York_…well, it just warms my lil’ southern heart.” She glances up and to the right, painted features contorted in bittersweet nostalgia. “I’d just love a tour.” Her chin dips, and she affects a humble smile in Mindy’s direction. “Not the usual tour, ‘course. Ain’t my first time trudging through cow manure, you know. I want to really _see _this place! Everything from the shiny steel milkin’ arms to the walk-in drain!” She leans forward over the counter until her glossy blonde curls dust the smooth surface of the backlit glass. “Is there _any _way I could talk you into makin’ that happen? One southern belle to another?”

Mindy worries her lower lip with big, white teeth. “_Technically, _we don’t start tours ‘til 9. There’s this real sweet girl, Izzy, who runs ‘em, and she knows _everything _‘bout this place.” The corners of her lips curl ever so slightly. “If you could wait…”

Ms. Hudson rights herself slowly, eyebrows scaling her forehead. “Oh.”

Marcus has to admit; his colleague’s acting is stunning. Her hopeful grin slips only a hair, but her lips tremble, and her smile lines smooth slowly as she takes a breath. She ducks her chin politely in Mindy’s direction before her gaze travels to him, childlike optimism tinged with a weary worldliness. “We could…” she begins hopefully, “but…” Her expression falls as her eyes trace his stoic expression. “You have to be at work, don’t you.”

He understands immediately that a) this is not a question and b) he is still expected to answer.

Inspired by Ms. Hudson’s compelling performance, he has the grace to shrug his shoulders uncomfortably and look sheepish. “Sorry, baby,” he murmurs lowly. He throws a tightlipped smile at Mindy and shrugs again for good measure. “Crime takes no vacations.” He allows his own smile to slip as he returns his gaze to Ms. Hudson. “You know I’ve gotta keep looking for our friends.”

He watches through peripheral vision as Mindy’s eyes and mouth widen in horror.

“Oh no!” she gasps. “You still ain’t found ‘em? You mean they’re still wanderin’ around in this blizzard?!”

Marcus spares her a glance. “We’re hoping they found shelter,” he admits lowly, studying the tears welling in her eyes. “We found a car abandoned near a boarded barn a few miles down on 44.”

Mindy covers her mouth with a shaking hand. “That’s terrible news! What’re you doin’ here?! You should be out lookin’ for ‘em!” Her gaze drops to the phone on the counter. “Hell, I can call the rest o’ the crew and see if any of ‘em saw somethin’ when they was comin’ in this mornin’…”

“Actually,” Marcus interrupts, reaching to squeeze Ms. Hudson’s hand, “I’d love a tour as well. It’d give me the chance to see if they dropped anything during _their _tour that might give an idea of where they were going.”

“Of course!” Mindy exclaims. “Give me just a sec, and I’ll…”

She trails off and bends down, disappearing into the growl of an opening drawer.

Marcus’s heart lunges into his throat, and he grips his firearm with one hand as he uses the other to brush Ms. Hudson behind him. He can feel her heart beating frantically, pounding a fearful rhythm into his back.

When Mindy emerges with a flashlight, both of them breathe an audible sigh of relief. She passes the torch with a sympathetic expression. “This place has a lot of nooks and crannies. Figured you might need one o’ these to make sure you don’t miss anything.” She shoots them both a smile that is at once cheery and sympathetic. “Follow me.”

* * *

Mindy and Ms. Hudson chatter amicably in the drawl of a foreign language—sorority parties, debutante balls, and junior rodeos. Their conversation allows Marcus to trace his friends’ steps just as Sherlock recounted them—past the spidery silver arms of the milking stations, through the bottling plant, and along the feeding stalls. Still, he watches the women with narrowed eyes, waiting for the moment that Mindy’s story crumbles and her nefarious plans emerge.

When Mindy leads them into the walk-in fridge, the hairs on Marcus’s neck stand at attention, and not just because of the cold.

“This shelving is incredible!” Ms. Hudson proclaims, running her manicured nails reverentially along the collection of bottles.

“Mr. Slo built it with his own two hands,” Mindy relays proudly, her smile wide. “Remodeled the whole interior not sixth months ago!”

Marcus halts in his investigation of the wire bail lids and whirls around to face the chatty receptionist. “The interior of the whole farm?!”

“Oh, gosh no,” Mindy laughs. “The walk-in. He put in brand new shelves, fixed the drain, changed the floor tiles…”

Marcus tries to see the burnt orange of the terra cotta tiles with Sherlock’s keen eye for detail or Joan’s medical expertise. He follows the slope of the floor to the metal grate in the middle, and his eyes widen in recognition. Sherlock’s raspy voice echoes amidst his thoughts as he studies the means by which the grate might be attached to the floor.

_“The tunnel ends with the walk-in. If you can manage to get in the walk-in, you can go through the drain and find the rooms in which we were held.”_

“Grate looks too rusty to be new,” he hears himself say. “Are you sure he remodeled _everything_?”

Mindy looks momentarily perplexed. “I know he brought everythin’ in with a wheelbarrow and closed the room down for a week or so.” She erupts into chuckles and braces herself with a hand on Ms. Hudson’s shoulder. “You shoulda seen all them refrigerators we had to bring in to store stuff while he was tearin’ this place apart! Felt like we had fridges everywhere! Thought them cows were gonna have a heart attack, closed in by all those giant boxes!” Ms. Hudson joins in the laughter, tossing her head back until the light catches her golden curls.

Marcus rolls his eyes and returns his attention to the grate. “Mind if I lift this thing up and examine the drain?”

Mindy clears her throat and brushes the remaining tears from her eyes as she attempts to even her breathing. “Go ‘head. You think yer friends mighta dropped somethin’ down there?”

“Piece o’ paper coulda slipped through the cracks,” Ms. Hudson drawls knowingly, laying a hand on Mindy’s forearm. “My husband’s a very _thorough_ investigator.”

Mindy looks up in surprise. Ms. Hudson winks, and Marcus fights the urge to groan as a knowing grin spreads across Mindy’s features.

“Gotta love a man who knows his details,” she muses.

The grate is cold against his fingers, but it lifts easily. Once he’s disposed of the lid, he can easily spot the steps carved into the dirt. He takes a few pictures under the guise of using his phone as flashlight.

“You got the one I gave you, too!” Mindy reminds him. “Might be a brighter light, ya know?”

Marcus passes the flashlight to Ms. Hudson. “Baby,” he begins tightly, “do you mind shining that light down here for me? I’m gonna go down and see if I can find anything.”

“’Course, honey,” Ms. Hudson murmurs warmly. She takes the torch and smiles shyly at Mindy. “Sometimes, he lets me assist.”

Mindy leans against one of the shelves, folds her arms, and shakes her head with a grin. “I cain’t even,” she chuckles. “Y’all are jus too cute.”

Marcus doesn’t stick around to hear Ms. Hudson’s response. Instead, he puts his phone in his mouth and descends using the footholds in the wall of the tunnel. Almost immediately, the wet, earth, musty smell of soil is overwhelming.

He knows what he will see before he turns around. Still, his stomach sinks like a leaden ball as the messy combination of black and white grains obscures his vision.

Marcus knows before he reaches out to touch that the soil is fresh. Before his feet find the ground, he perches on the last foothold and takes pictures of the floor, noting with no small degree of satisfaction that there are still discernible boot prints in the array of old and new dirt. He wonders if the treads will match the Bekina model Sherlock mentioned.

“Stinks to high heaven!” Mindy grunts, peering over the edge. “Is that new soil?”

Marcus decides immediately that Mindy is either very, very innocent, or very, _very _adept at playing dumb in a way that exculpates her.

“Certainly looks like it,” he remarks dryly. Feet now on the ground, he reaches out and slides a bit of the soil into an evidence bag. The mixture is still moist enough that it sticks to the edges of the plastic. He wonders for a moment if Ms. Hudson can distract Mindy long enough for him to uncover the tunnel. He wonders how much soil obscures it.

“Find anything?” Mindy asks hopefully, peering down with a smile.

“Slip of paper covered in dirt,” Marcus replies with a tight-lipped grin of his own, brandishing the evidence bag. “Might give us an idea of where they’re headed.”

“I sure hope so,” Mindy muses. “I been prayin’ for ‘em. I sure hope they didn’t try to go camping in this kinda weather. You know a couple tried to camp up in these mountains a few years ago and _died_? Guy who worked here before me told me all ‘bout it…”

* * *

In total, Mindy spends an hour guiding them through the dairy farm. Marcus takes pictures surreptitiously, hoping to capture some sort of photographic evidence that justifies a search warrant. He’s not optimistic, but he enjoys the illusion of control and the feeling that he might, in some small way, be helping the investigation along.

Ms. Hudson makes conversation the whole time, gathering what Marcus knows to be a different kind of evidence.

Mindy sends them off at the register with a warm hug and an open invitation to “come back when Mr. Slo’s in, ‘cause he knows _everything _‘bout this place!”

They wave until the door to the front entrance slams shut. The window catches the sunlight, gleaming gold like a beacon amidst the freshly fallen snow.

Ms. Hudson snakes an arm around his waist and guides him toward the car, where she climbs gracefully into the passenger seat and rubs her hands along her arms to ward off the chill.

Marcus reaches for his seatbelt and checks the mirrors before leveling Ms. Hudson with an expectant gaze.

“Good undercover?” he spits incredulously.

“_Very _good undercover,” Ms. Hudson corrects with a wry smile. “Did I lie?”

“A little warning would’ve been nice,” Marcus grumbles.

“I think you did just fine under the circumstances,” Ms. Hudson murmurs charitably. “You think quite well on your feet.”

“I was _trained _for undercover work,” Marcus retorts.

Ms. Hudson tilts her head thoughtfully to the side. “I suppose I was too, in a way…”

“Tell me you’re at least from the south.”

She laughs. “Hardly. I grew up in the Bronx.”

Marcus arches an eyebrow, impressed. “Have you _ever_ lived in Georgia?”

“I read a book about it once—a high society debutante drama. Fascinating social study, if a bit disheartening in its implications of the human race.” Her brow furrows delicately as she squints toward the ceiling. “I’m afraid I can’t recall the name of the novel, but the stakes were higher than an episode of _Dance Moms_.”

“You got all that from a novel?” Marcus muses incredulously as the Slo-N-Smooth farm grows smaller and smaller behind them.

“Not _all _of it.” Ms. Hudson winks. “I had a pretty good scene partner.”

Armed with a bit more information—about Slo-N-Smooth Farms _and _his unconventional “scene partner”—Marcus revs the engine and points the nose of the vehicle toward the Courtyard Marriott in Poughkeepsie.


End file.
